His Perfect Girl

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To gain all she desired, she knew she would have to give up all she had been.

It had been a year. A year since her pubic hair had gone down the drain, taken away by his razor. With firm patience, he had explained to her that some girls were simply born with a dirty pussy and needed someone who knew how to discipline them, keep them clean, and still understand and see to their slutty needs.

A year since she had chosen to stand in front of his desk, in her best “come-fuck-me” outfit, as she had been instructed, and trembled as he looked at her with unmasked disgust and coolly berated her while she attempted to deflect it with glib, bratty remarks. She had wound up being thrown across the desk and spanked until she was sobbing and begging for his guidance.

Her trampy clothes were torn from her, her long nails were clipped short and her make-up roughly scrubbed off. Soon after, her entire wardrobe was in garbage bags, left on a street corner frequented by prostitutes, where he had demanded she take them. Cosmetics and contact lenses were also discarded and a pair of heavy, black, plastic eyeglasses was selected for her.

A year since she had visited her salon to have her hair done, one last time. They did their best and when she stood before him at the beginning, it surrounded her head in a pale, bleached-blond and tightly permed aura reaching high above her forehead and hanging to just below her shoulders. Her party girl life had begun the day she had adopted this style, using the money her mother’s boyfriend had given her to keep quiet about what had happened when they been alone together and he had offered to brush her hair. Two feet or more of chestnut silk was left on the beauty parlor floor that day.

But like her hair, that life had grown thin, dingy, and brittle until kismet and the internet had led her to him.

Now she sat patiently, eyes down, dressed in a plain, grey pinafore over her white shirt, its hem falling below her knees to the tops of her socks, clunky black shoes on her feet. A matching beret covered her head. Her hair was tightly braided in two plaits, held fast by red bows. This is how she had come to typically wear it, except today she had been allowed her to wash it and no greasy hair dressing had been smeared into it to help keep its straw-like texture contained, conditioned, and tidy.

This was a private room built by its owner to look like a public place; a barbershop. It was lovingly recreated from a bygone era, right down to the waiting chairs, now all occupied by a host of men of various ages, all eyeing her expectantly, sitting there with them. A silver-haired man stood behind the big chair in the middle wearing a classic side button smock; a cruelly cheerful grin on his face.

“Stand up.” The order came from beside her, startling her slightly, “and stand in front of the chair, facing me”.

“Yes Daddy.” she replied and did as he instructed. He handed her a tube of dark red lipstick and told her to put it on. He asked her why he made her wear it and she answered so people could see what a dirty girl she was. Then he told her to take off her hat and all could see the six inches of brown hair that disappeared into the blond braids. She hesitated only a moment when he told her to get in the chair, drew a deep breath, and complied.

“Sit up straight and hands in your lap.” He instructed as the cape was put around her, using the code that told her to raise her skirt and touch her freshly shaved cunt. Her hair was unbraided and brushed and combed out straight down, all around her head until her vision was obscured and she could only hear his voice. The thin, over-processed, fuzzy locks hung to her breasts, looking like they had been sewn onto the cap of straight, healthy, new hair.

Sometimes sharply insisting she speak up, he made her confess her sins to them and tell why she needed her Daddy’s discipline. Good girls get to go to the beauty parlor she recited to them when he asked. Then he asked her where bad girls, like her, went.

“Bad girls go to the barbershop, Daddy” she answered.

He must have given some signal, for an electric motor was snapped on and its harsh buzz grew louder as it was pushed towards her forehead. The final curtain of her former self was struck and dropped into her lap to slide to the parquet floor, its cleanly severed ends showing the dark hair above the wispy, colorless lengths. The barber worked his way across and to the side in the same ruler-straight line, a centimeter above her ear, using the comb to level and driving the inverted clippers into the scalp, then drawing them down. All around her head he went, turning the chair so everyone could witness the process. She squeezed the unexpected tears from her eyes to leave wet spots on the white pinstripes as they dripped off her chin, telling herself to be brave for Daddy, all the while fingering her clitoris.

The circuit complete, the clippers were turned back over and passed slowly up the nape of her neck and around her ears, leaving only a shadow. Scissors snip, snip, snipped to make it all just right. A shockingly hot towel was pressed to the newly shorn skin then followed by the heat and smell of the lather being brushed on it. She mewled softly at the razor’s rasp.

The floor looked covered in old hay when the cape was removed and shaken out. She did not ask to see; her Daddy’s eyes were the only mirror she needed to know how beautiful she was to him. Alighting from the barber chair at his command, she took in the sight of the fevered eyes of the specially invited guests around her, two of them already rubbing themselves through their pants at what they watched. Daddy ordered her to strip off her shirt, pinafore and knee-highs, down to the rigid bondage of the old-fashioned girdle and bra all-in-one she wore beneath, with seamed stockings clipped to it. He bent her over the seat, revealing a circle of black silicone between her ass cheeks. She heard the sound of his belt sliding from the loops as the other men stood up and moved towards her.

She gasped each time the belt cracked against her buttocks and again when the butt plug was withdrawn from her.

“Are you Daddy’s good girl?” he asked her in her ear.

“Yes Daddy” she moaned as his erection entered her where the plug had been.

“Touch it.” Was all he said next and both her hands flew to the strange and wonderful new sensation of the sensitive, shaved skin on her nape. She had never before felt so completely submissive and owned. She was his; his to command, his to share.

And Daddy knew just what a girl like her needed.

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